


By Eve's Rules

by killingg_eve



Series: A Very Merry Kinktober 2020 [2]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/F, Is this too much?, NSFW, but it's THAT type of Dark Eve.... oh, dear lordt, i honestly don't know, ummm - Freeform, we love to see Dark Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26858863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killingg_eve/pseuds/killingg_eve
Summary: NSFW: I don't even know what to call this.She's dirty, she's . . . literal filth, if I ever.I'm going to slam the publish button and go hide ✌🏼But if you liked it, please lmk. 😂🙈
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Series: A Very Merry Kinktober 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1959379
Comments: 20
Kudos: 104





	By Eve's Rules

**Author's Note:**

> When the h-word hours hit. 1 Kudos = 1 Prayer = 1 chance at redemption

“Open,” Eve says, and Villanelle does exactly that because she is a little bit less shy than others.

Eve wants to sigh and she wants to say, _“That’s so nice,”_ but Dark Eve has the reigns, so she doesn’t do a whole lot of reacting.

She swipes her middle finger over the hood of Villanelle’s clit and wonders if she’s losing touch with her own humanity, since she skipped the teasing and started touching where Villanelle is most sensitive, but Villanelle shudders under her touch and already feels wet, so that the “wondering” gets quickly tossed aside. They are nothing, if not the same.

“Seems you know exactly what you’re doing,” Villanelle says while Eve strokes her clit in fine circles. She’s cocky and her eyes are dark.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t know how? I wasn’t born yesterday,” Eve says, and frankly, her tone is a little cold.

Villanelle chuckles. The way it comes from the front of her throat means she’s being quite careful to not laugh in such a way that would push her body further into Eve’s hand. “You _definitely_ weren’t born yesterday.” She looks Eve up and down with a smirk.

Eve starts to flick up and down. She’s repaying the sarcastic jab towards her age in pleasure, but she suspects that if Villanelle starts to come undone, that’s how it could look more like punishment.

Villanelle does shut up, at that, turning her gaze towards Eve’s finger and watching it like hypnosis.

“Eve.” She accidentally whispers in desperation. Then, she shakes her head and speaks firmer, “Go inside. I can show you.”

Eve _already told her_ that she’s not a beginner, that she isn’t getting Villanelle off as some sort of “trial and error” experiment. She feels a twinge of irritation, but figures that showing is better than telling, so she stops rubbing at her clit and sinks two fingers into her.

Villanelle lets go of a moan and then a gasp, and her head falls back as she feels Eve beckoning inside of her, perfectly. Tapping at the place that needs it most and filling her just right.

“Eve!” she wails this time, unchecked. “I’ll finish soo—”

“—No. Uh-uh. You’re not coming till I say.” Eve keeps a steady pace.

“Then slow down! I’m not going to be able to—”

Cut off again. “Oh, you will. You can and you will.”

Villanelle cries into her shoulder and submits to probing fingers that are already too quick. After a minute, she realizes that conversation is a tool she can deploy.

“Eve, did you plan this, all this time? Did you touch yourself and think of me?”

The question is so direct, so unashamed, that a chill rolls down her back. “Uh-huh,” Eve responds in such a _deep_ voice, and it’s like she’s agreeing with the question being asked _and_ with the sight before her.

“Tell me wh—” her head falls back with a sharp inhale, and she really didn’t mean to, “—tell me what you would think about.”

She hums and thinks about how this conversation will push Villanelle further. “Baby, I thought ab—”

“Don’t call me that!” Villanelle yells.

Eve slows her pulsing fingers, taken aback. She shows vulnerability and worry for the first time. “Sorry, do you not—”

“I like it, Eve. But you told me not to come, and if you call me that,” (her forehead sweat is visible), “I will . . . I will . . . _disobey_ you.” She’s choosing her words carefully.

“Oh!” Eve says, relieved that Villanelle was turned on, not upset.

Villanelle looks at her, expecting her to continue, and all but stilling her body around the fingers as the pace quickens, again.

“I would think about . . . “ (how is Eve even breathing properly?) “. . . if you would be wet for me. And if you would feel soft beneath my fingers.”

Villanelle nods because she thinks both are true.

“And I would think about being on top of you when you c—” she doesn’t want to say that and spoil Villanelle’s chances at obedience.

“Mhm,” Villanelle whimpers ever so quietly; she considers the concept and it hits her in the gut. “When did you first do it and think of me? Was it after I told you I did it about you?”

Eve thinks Villanelle is speaking too coherently. She licks at the middle finger of her other hand while keeping Villanelle’s eye contact, certain that she is delivering approximately a thousand alarms to Villanelle’s brain.

Villanelle sees a finger being dampened. Eve Polastri is licking at her own finger, and Villanelle wants to kiss Eve so deep that she could lick the tongue she sees, and she gets a very vivid image of kissing her like that (and a new wave of butterflies in her gut), which is cut short when Eve uses that hand to rub her throbbing clit again. The worst part of it all is that her right hand never breaks its reckless pace inside of her.

“No,” Eve finally replies. “I thought about you before then. You held a knife to my throat, in my kitchen, and when you left my house, I asked Niko to take me upstairs.”

“Fuck,” Villanelle whispers. But her arousal skips a beat when she hears Moustache’s name. She looks off to the side like she’s received good and bad news and doesn’t know how to feel.

Eve Polastri is not only a spy, but also a mind-reader. “I was with him, but I imagined that you were on top of me. And then I imagined that _I_ was on top of _you_ , and then, well. . .” (She can’t tell Villanelle that that’s what brought her over the edge. It would be cruel to say so while teasing every part of Villanelle.)

“Eve,” Villanelle sighs with gratitude and arousal, and speaking her name is almost as dangerous as any other words that could be said, right now.

The moment passes and Villanelle begins to worry, again, about her ability to fend off an orgasm. It doesn’t help that Eve is concentrating pretty hard and being somewhat rough with both of her hands.

“When can I . . .?” Villanelle asks, and those are the only words she can choke out.

“Oh, not yet.” Eve’s eyes have a sinister gleam. “ _. . . Baby girl._ ”

“Eve! I told you not—”

“—You can hear it and still be obedient,” Eve immediately fires back.

“Fuck!” Villanelle yells, turning her head to the side and trying _not_ to think of her clit and _not_ to feel the jabs to her g-spot and _not—definitely not_ to hear the words “Baby” and “Girl” resounding in every part of her body.

The truth is, Eve is too dark. She’s having too much fun. She wants Villanelle to disobey her. She wants to _ruin_ her. So the permission will never actually come, but she wants to know what combination of words or actions would lead Villanelle to be so turned on that she would come without permission.

Eve is quick to continue conversing, if that’s what Villanelle wants. “You said you used to, um, touch yourself a lot and think of me. You said that in Paris. So, what did _you_ think about?”

“Why do—” Villanelle gets derailed by the hot feeling in her clit, “Why do you say ‘used to,’ Eve?” And she’s yelling, practically. Maybe she’s yelling to distract herself from feeling as pliable and as close as she feels. Her sarcasm is clumsy when its cloaked in raw pleasure.

Eve moans on accident. Her cheeks flush red. Villanelle still masturbates about her?

Villanelle recalls her fantasies and realizes she needs to explain them, and it hits her everywhere, like torture.

“I would think about having…your finger on…my clit. And having…your fingers…in—side…and that maybe you would c—ca—call me ba—by. Girl.”

Eve stares into her pupils. “Are you serious?”

“Eve!” Villanelle screams out again, on accident. “Why would I make…it u—up?” (She’s already ruined.)

“Well, it looks like you have exactly what you want, then,” Eve says with little enthusiasm.

“Not really. In my f—fantasy then you would let me co—you would let me . . .” she knows that Eve knows what she’s trying to say, without saying it, “. . .whenever I wanted to.”

Eve looks like she’s rethinking things. “Huh.” (And why does the “huh” sound so explicit?) Her eyes grow incredibly dark. “In your wet dreams, Villanelle, are you not . . . _good for me?_ ”

“Eve!” (Villanelle really needs to stop yelling.) “I am goo—” she becomes a broken record, repeating herself and never getting the words out. “I am g—I am g—I am g—”

Eve drags her fingers slightly higher, slightly rougher, and groans as she admires the rapid pace of her circling finger. She revels in how ready Villanelle _feels_.

“ _Villanelle_ ,” Eve whines in a positively sexual voice, meant to break Villanelle in her core.

“Ahh, _baby girl_ ,” she moans out, again. It’s torture.

“Ohhh, you _are_ so _good_ ,” Eve says in such a _bad_ way.

“Am I?” Villanelle chokes out, and her eyes close.

“Are you what?” Eve asks, and she must truly be evil.

“Am I g— _good_?” Oops. Villanelle says that and feels herself already starting to clench around Eve’s fingers, involuntarily, without her _or_ Eve’s consent.

Eve feels muscles contracting and starts to hurl encouragement at her while she comes.

“ _You’re such a good girl. So good for me. So wet and obedient. Letting me get you off and toy with you for as long as I would like. Taking my fingers and letting me play with your pretty little clit. Letting me take all of you. So pretty, baby girl..._ ”

(And um…) Villanelle is throbbing around Eve’s fingers for almost a full minute, keeping her voice down to a continuous, quiet whine because the only thing that exists (besides Eve’s fingers) is what Eve is _saying_ , and she’s also quiet because she’s so wrecked that she cannot speak or cry out, even if she wanted to. All she can comprehend is her own distressed humming sound, as well as all of the filthy things Eve tells her.

When Villanelle starts to become overstimulated, Eve keeps her fingers deep inside her, so she won’t be left empty.

Villanelle could practically fall asleep as she lies back and feels Eve’s fingers keeping her full. But she is distressed at the thought that Eve may be mad. She wasn’t supposed to come, and she knew that, but _all of those words_ gave her no control.

“Eve, . . . I’m sorry, Eve,” Villanelle whispers, eyes still closed, feeling full and yet scared.

Eve climbs her way up Villanelle’s body and kisses her lips, first, and then her cheek.

Villanelle’s eyes open at the contact and she softly gasps. She wonders if Eve is more normal, now, instead of insatiably dark.

“Don’t be sorry,” Eve says in a hushed tone, laced with certainty and a more palpable sense of endearment. “I wanted to see what would do it to you, what would push you over. I was never going to give you permission because I wanted to see how long you would try to follow my orders, and what types of words would make it impossible for you to continue.”

Villanelle feels shocked, but relieved that she didn’t disappoint Eve, after all. “How did you know which words to use?” she asks.

Eve looks like she has the answer to everything in the world. “You told me yourself.”

Her eyes go wide with surprise and realization. It is true—she told Eve not to say “baby,” and she, _herself_ , couldn’t say “good.”

Villanelle thinks Eve is a genius, but a specific doubt starts to cloud her mind, almost immediately.

“Eve, does that mean nothing you said to me was tr—”

“—It’s all true.” Eve doesn’t want her to spend another second walking down that avenue of fear, betrayal, or distrust. “It’s all true.” (She repeats it.) “A million other things are true, too. You could just as well be _darling_ or _lover_ or . . . _greedy slut_ ,” (she has to chuckle at the thought of calling Villanelle that). “People like all sorts of things. I think there are endless truths, when it comes to you. _You’re so many things_.” She remembers saying that to Villanelle, before. “But maybe you’re _baby_ or _baby girl_ or _good girl_ because you like those most. . . Do you still like them?”

“Yes!” Villanelle squeaks, right away. “I don’t know why, Eve. I don’t know why.”

“You don’t have to know why. And even if you did, you wouldn’t have to explain it to me, if you didn’t want to.”

Villanelle can hardly understand how Eve seemed so _cruel_ minutes ago, but now she feels like the safest place on earth.

“I love you Eve,” Villanelle says. She looks at Eve and then at Eve’s hand, which is still buried in her.

Eve hovers over her again, kissing her again. “I love you, too . . .” (She can hardly contain herself), “ _baby_ girl, _good_ girl.”

Villanelle’s muscles flutter over Eve’s fingers and she lets out a moan.

And that makes them both laugh.


End file.
